Title: Veysee
Year: 2011
Publication: Perera-Hussein, 'Blue: Stories for Adults'

A peek into the Sri Lankan male psyche.



You start talking to her because you're bored. You're at a Ranil's house drinking and he gets her on line for you. He tells you she's fourteen, and has big tits and talks like a seasoned slut. You give her your hand phone number. She starts calling you.

Her name is Suba, and she's actually sixteen. You're actually thirty-two. You should have outgrown this years ago. Every other day, she calls you after school and you sit in meetings while she talks filthy.

You've come to a curious time in your life. You've lost faith in love affairs and pornography pleases you more than the prospect of a partner. You honestly prefer masturbation to sex and it begins to scare you.

The computer at the office is flooded with porn and you're the only one who knows where it is. The juniors are afraid of the machine and so is your boss, though he pretends he isn't.

In Sri Lanka sex is distributed unevenly. You get it in abundance if you're rich or powerful or beautiful, or any cruel combination of the three. You don't get it if you're ordinary, pleasant or good-natured. You don't get it if you're rolling in self doubt and it shows on your face. You don't get it if you're someone like you
Obviously, things aren't happening these days. You're trying to convince yourself that it's just a lean patch and you're done with relationships. But the weeks are turning to months and the months threaten to turn into years. You count the women you've screwed and compare them with the women in FHM. You count how many women you haven't screwed and it drives you nuts. Or drives you to grope for your nuts gazing at FHM.

Everyone else is getting it. Even Mohan in accounts. He's shacking up with his secretary who is as gorgeous as he is fat and ugly. Sathi the promotions director claims he screws all the foreigners who visit the hotel and the sad thing is he's probably telling the truth. He eats raw pig fat and his belly stays flat. He spends fortnights in the sun and his skin stays olive.

So you call Suba and start flattering her. You use words like 'princess' and 'sexy' and 'sweetheart'. They all work. She bores you with her family. She tells you she's going to be a pop star and that she's already written songs that are sure hits. She could even write a song for you.

You cut to the chase. When can I see you, you ask. My father won't let me, she murmurs. You debate for a while. You hang up.

Later that night she calls you. Right after Baywatch. You sit out in the garden and feel yourself under your batik sarong.

You haven't kissed a boy?
You tell first. Have you kissed?
Mad? Of course I haven't kissed a boy.
No...o...ha..he...he...You're silly. I mean girl!!!
Her inane drawl excites you even more. You drop your voice to a whisper.
I can kiss you. All parts of you. Even soft parts.
Chee...what are you asking?
Let me feel touch you.

And so on. Your words like kithul honey on fresh curd. You hope your desire will stick and lure her to you. After 2 weeks of banter all that sticks is your foreskin to your Y-fronts.

Yet the sensation is enthralling. She has carved a niche in your fantasies. She looks like the girl off the tele-dramas, or so you convince yourself. Now you can use words like payya and huththa in your conversations without blushing. She purrs without shame. Knowing that you know she is faking.

And so on it continues. She is the first thing you wake up to and last thing you fall asleep to. It's freaky because you've always hated the way phones invade your privacy and hijack your time. Your last 3 relationships broke down because you couldn't notch up the required telecom points. And now the cellular phone is the nucleus of your existence. You hang it next to your car CD player and poke in your hands free set as you drive to work. You eat, sleep and urinate with it.
And you listen. To her talk about her school sports meet. To how she hates her big sister. To how she loves Enrique.

You know it's pitiful, but the heaviness of her breathing and the image of her teledrama legs wrapped around your scrawny butt spurs you on. You ask her if she's keen to hook up. Finally, she says yes.

* * *

You call Ranil. He's who introduced you to Suba. He says he got it from a friend of his who was a DJ at Achcharu FM. You feel a pang of something and suppress it, aware that it could well be jealousy.

Bitches call those buggers all the time, he says. Gata Badu . Can't screw but can have some fun. Why can't screw, you inquire. These are small bitches, they can't get out of the house, all you can do is talk and jerk.
You are very pleased with yourself.

* * *

You agree to meet at the Dehiwela Zoo. It is close to her tuition class. She will have her father's mobile and you can call her on that. You construct your picture as you drive. Short. Possibly plump. Big tits and milk coffee skin. Like that tele-drama actress whose name you can't remember.

She will be carrying a yellow umbrella and you will be wearing a red t-shirt and a gold chain. She may bring a friend. Initially you are reluctant, but then you figure what the hell. If her friend is a babe you can ignore Suba and do the swap.

Today you will chat and impress them with your wealth and your good looks. You'll take them for a ride in the boss's Benz and drive them to Wellawatte for an ice cream. Remember to pick a place where no one you know will be.

You will then start picking them up from school. They go to St. Paul's Milagiriya which is wanking distance from where you work. Once you have built up trust you can take one to a hotel. First a cheap one, and maybe later outstation. If, as your friend says they won't let you screw, then no problem. There is plenty of stuff you can teach them. You can preserve their virginity but still turn them into sluts.

You wait for three hours but no yellow umbrella appears. Young girls pass by the dozen, but none of them pay any attention to your red t-shirt. Except for one. She is tall and fair, with an underdeveloped body and malnourished breasts. Good, as they say, for a screw.

You follow her around the zoo. Probably, as usual, because you're bored. You pass the flamingos and move towards the big cats. You follow the meagre flesh of her butt as it sways in harmony to her footsteps. She is with a group of girls and an elderly lady, a grown-up.

You dial the number and an old man answers. Suba has given a traditional d-rope, a lanuwa . You call her home, but there is no answer. After one hour at the zoo you grow weary. The place stinks and the animals look as shabby as the people staring at them. You make your way to the entrance and lick an ice cream, an oral cold shower. You finally get to Suba. She says her father picked her up from tuition and wouldn't let her use the phone. You fail to hide your bitterness. You mention that if you can't meet her you might start looking for another girl. So leths just talk, she lisps. You make me horny, no, please don't go. Her moans no longer sound sexy to you. They sound like what they are. The whinings of an infant.

The fair girl walks to the entrance with her gang of four plus chaperone. You see goodbyes being exchanged and you hang up on Suba and get in your car. The girl is walking towards Karagampitiya. Alone. She stops at a bus stand. You stop ten metres before it. The bus she mounts is yellow and has Pitakotuwa written on its back. Following a bus doesn't require skill. It just requires infinite patience, which at that moment you have in abundance.

She gets down near a housing scheme. You park and follow her on foot. So this is what it has come to. You, stalking a young girl. You tell yourself you are one sick paraya dog but continue following. She weaves down Anderson Road into the housing scheme.

You walk past her, pretending that you are also an occupant. You feel her eyes upon you as you pass. It makes you tingle. You linger at the end of the corridor and watch her enter flat number 19/7.

You scamper down to the mailbox at the front. Nineteen upon Seven. The box is blue and the paint is peeling. It is filled with leaflets for the upcoming elections. There is an overdue electricity bill for a Mr Naganathan. And a current phone bill. You enter the number into your mobile and are on your way.

* * *

Hello. Mr Naganathan please. Right. I'm calling from the department of Census and Statistics. We're gathering information for the Municipal Elections. Are you the head of household? Right. And your occupation. I see. Do you own your own bakery? Very good. How many in your household? Your daughters' names and ages? How do you spell that? A-N-A-S-U. 20. Right and A-N-J-U is thirteen. Right. And your wife's name...

* * *

You work for the Sigiriya Hotel. Your time is spent in a sweaty Colombo office, working deals, drafting leaflets, and downloading porn. You work with three others. Ranil, Namini and Shereen.

Shereen is a lovely person but a repulsive lay. Namini's not bad, though a bit goday . Plus she talks too much. The whole of Colombo and Sigiriya would know if you tried anything with her.

You're sick of chatting to Suba. She babbles on about her exams and her sister and helps rekindle your aversion to the cellular phone. You've just discovered Celebrity.com and it supplies you with enough jpegged snaps of Cameron Diaz, Salma Hayek and the chick from Survivor to get you through the day. You've also discovered a new face and a new number that you can use at your earliest convenience.

Then in the evening, Ranil comes to your cubicle. He spies a middle-aged woman striking a pose in a box on your monitor. Hey isn't that Queen Elizabeth? You smell his BO. Fool, you say, her name's Dame Judi Dench and this is some b-grade flick she did in the 60s.

Enough jacking, he says. Come, let's put a booze. I'm going with my old advertising buddies. Why not, you think, and tag along.

The venue is the Jubilee Bar in Colpetty. The arrack is sold at cost. The place is just 3 fans, seventeen tables and one florescent bulb. A whale of a woman who everyone calls Akka serves drink and dishes out attitude.

You know there are rooms upstairs, says Ranil. That is how they make money. This is just a front.

You are drinking with three of Ranil's former work associates. They are so-called creative people who use that as an excuse to dress like beggars. You have met them before and don't particularly care for any of them.

Monro is a skinny young man who has prematurely grown middle-aged. Some of these woman, not bad you know, he says, poring a shot of gal. Me and Prasan went for a massage. Good scene, no machan? Can put a talk and get a screw.
You sip your gin and ponder. Ranil drinks stout and Monro, Prasan and the fat fellow drink gal. Both drinks you cannot stand. One tastes like liquid marmite and the other smells like urine mixed with paint thinner.

Shall we put a massage, machan? The question is directed at you. You've never done a whore in your life and don't intend on doing it with these pricks. I'm happy with my gin, you reply. Pious fucker, Ranil grins.

There haven't been too many women in your life. Just 1 that mattered and a few more that didn't. To you they are unattainable objects. They disarm you with their beauty and you see your imperfections mirrored in their lack of interest. And it consumes your every waking thought.

You change the subject. Tomorrow Poya, no? No more booze. The table erupts in groans. Outside it is raining and inside it is dry. Monro comes up with the challenge. Free booze for the person who goes to get it. You put down five hundred bucks and watch the fat bugger get to his feet. You can't remember his name but you're sure it starts with L.

Prasan, the baseball-capped-gangsta-wannabe, brings up an interesting point. How many bitches before you settle down? He asks. All of them, replies Ranil and you and Monro slap hands. You inwardly calculate your lifetime conquests and realize to your dismay that you've only just made double figures. You could probably stretch it to twenty if you exaggerate it to yourself. Still, that's a few short of all of them.

Never stop screwing, advises Monro. Even if you find the perfect girl, taste something different. You can't always eat the lunch packet you bring from home. Once in a while a man needs a burger or a kottu . You know who said that, Machan? Freud.

TuPac Shakur in the corner is the unlikely voice of morality. I aint down with that shit. In my book, you fuck sluts till you're 25, then you find a chick and you give her love. You give her different kinds of love and you'll never get sick, you know what I'm saying?

So machan, give her love. Monro's voice goes high. I'm not saying no. But also machan share your love around a bit. Then your wife will also enjoy.

You join the discussion. Does your wife know you cheat? Monro is horrified. Are you mad? I'm not married machan, but I say a different cunt makes you appreciate what's at home. Then you can stay married for 50 years.

Ranil brings his opinion to the table. You can't chase after girls after marriage. That's pathetic bullshit. Be with your wife, but if some tart like Pamela Anderson, or...or... Judi Dench comes and opens her legs don't be a ponnaya . Do her and go home. If it comes your way, don't kick it away.

Prasan is not convinced. I hope I aint like you old fucks when I hit thirty. I can screw any bitch I want - but if I get Sara, man...I am gonna stay true.

The old fucks howl with delight and rip into the boy. Defiling his virginal Sara with lewd fantasies. One involving a spit roast, the other a swordfight. Prasan storms off in a sulk. The others giggle. He'll be back. You briefly talk about cricket and then Prasan returns and the case is reopened. Statistics reveal that Sri Lankans consume more hard liquor and talk more about sex than any nationality in the uncivilised world. Unfortunately neither of these activities translate into any real action. In that department Sri Lankans trail somewhere around the bottom.
When the bottles run out at half past nine, Prasan is still unconvinced. But, for some reason that you can't quite fathom, you are.

* * *

You drop them off at Hotel Devaki. Ranil reimburses you your five hundred bucks. The fat bugger hasn't turned up and probably won't. They urge you to come in but you have had enough of their company. You feign an excuse and put the car into gear.

Outside Hotel Devaki, two women patrol opposite sides of the road. You keep the car in first, step off the gas and let the clutch guide you at 15kph. She's standing on the corner and wearing a blue sari. You slow right down hoping that she isn't a ghost.

"Sir. We can go to room for thousand five."

Vana Mohini, Colombo's most famous apparition, carries a dead child and throws it at horny drivers like yourself. This woman smiles and you're glad to see she has a semi-full set of teeth. Betel and spousal abuse rob most whores of their pearls before the age of forty.

"Too much."
"Give thousand."
"Five hundred in the car."

Apparitions don't bargain. You scrutinise what you're paying for. Body looks slim, but that could just be tightening of the sari. No pot belly and decent sized breasts. Face is pleasant, though a tad worn with wrinkles.

"Car can't"
"Scared, Mahattaya. "
"See ya."

You have four options now that you have refused the most obvious one. Pornography or Karaoke lounge or Suba or Anasu Naganathan. Pornography is the staple diet of every Sri Lankan male. It is preferred to the prospect of an actual relationship. Video shops are stacked with copies of copies. Each passed from hand to hand with lines of static from too many hurried fast forwards and excited rewinds.

You playback the last few blue films you have committed to memory. Anal Rampage had brown vixens with big asses faking orgasms with blonde Scandinavians with big dicks. Animal Action had two overweight German girls raping an underfed pig. The pig had a circumcised cock, which struck you as kind of ironic. Neither movie did much for your libido.

You park outside the Princess Palace and dial Suba. Rain pelts your windscreen and bonnet. Her line is engaged. Then you dial Anasu. Her father answers.

"Who's this?"
"Mr. Perera. I am Roshini's father. She is a classmate of Anasu."
The lie comes easily and you are proud of yourself.
The voice is sweet. You can see her long ponytail dangling like a pendulum from buttock to buttock.
"Anasu. I've been in love with you for so long. I had to call you. But if you want me to stop calling just say."
"Who is this?"

The sweetness fades and is replaced with a guttural accent.

"My name is Enrico. You don't know me. I'd like to talk to you and get to know you. I think you're sexy."

Before long you are talking and you realize it is a lot more stimulating to talk to a twenty-year-old with a brain than a fourteen-year-old without one. She is cautious at first, but you know this type of girl well. Probably kept under house arrest by overzealous parents. Probably never had a boyfriend. Probably has a picture of Ricki Martin on her wall.

If you tell her she is beautiful and display good manners, she will be yours. She tells you she is studying accounts and wants to go to New Zealand. She doesn't bitch about her family like Suba, but tells you about the lodger they have who gives her the creeps. She says she thinks he is a terrorist and you laugh at her and make it sound like you are laughing with her.

"Do you have internet? Appa doesn't like me on the phone too long."
"Doesn't the internet block up your phone bill as well?"
She giggles.
"Appa doesn't know nothing."

She gives you the name of a chat group. www.viharamahadevi.lk Her handle is suzie. Yours is to be cupid. You find yourself driving to a 24 hour cyber cafe in Bamba and not worrying about the consequences.

You could blame it on alcohol, but you choose not to. You could blame it on ticking biology; on the fact that you are thirty and closer to death. Early in life, you asked yourself the same question that Prasan posed at Jubilee. How many women before you die or get married. After much deliberation you settled on one hundred, which is a compromise from 'all of them'.

Your car stereo doesn't work, so you have to put up with radio. The DJ has a makeshift Australian accent and a working ignorance of the English language. "Here's good one, love your enemies, in case your friends turn out to be completely bastards. Achcharu FM. We play everything. This is Marc Anthony."
The same station is playing in the cybercafe. The place is almost full. Mostly boys in their twenties playing Quake. A few foreigners punching emails and next to you a ten year-old nonchalantly downloading hardcore porn. You are no prude by a long shot, but the sight of Anal Fisting Fuck Sluts and Trannies Raping Homos before the eyes of a baby manages to shock you. The owner walks to you to deliver a steaming tea.

He spies the boy and your uncomfortable expression. "Chuti. Get out! Go sleep! I'll tell your father!"

The boy receives a palm to the back of the head and exits from right of the server. You guess that this performance was more for your benefit than for the child's.

Getting online proves tiresome. The virtual highway is as congested as the actual one. It takes you fifteen minutes to get to viharamahadevi.lk.

Yo suzie. Enrico here... I mean cupid.
How are ya
bit tired... bit excited.
Cos I'm talklinhg to you.

Same old routine. Different medium. The DJ keeps rotating crappy boy band songs which you've sometimes admitted to liking. You keep spinning shit.

So I know u do I
I don't think so.
Do you want to meet?
I don't mind.
Don't mind only
No I would anything
Yu would aanything?
Give anything to see u

The DJ suspecting no one is actually listening decides to read stuff from a magazine. A magazine with more pictures than words.

"They're calling this the vanity matrix. Aye, Do you look good and know it? Bee, you believe you are beautiful even if you're not? Cee, are you one of those who aren't pretty and don't pretend to be? Or Dee, are you beautiful and don't know it."

The station is changed at the request of the gameboys, but the monologue continues in your head. Everyone wants to be A. Most people are B and C. Who hope they are a D. You return your attention to the dialogue.

I love ur hair and the way u walk.
How do you look
I'm notn bullshittting. But I have a good body and girls like my face.
How old
ooh baby. R u studying
no working with children
can't be earning
no no unicef they pay in dollars

In your younger days, you'd like to think that you sowed your wild oats, but you didn't really. A girlfriend a year, some maybe longer. And then at 24, Fiona Mowlana.

If you had one night, one week, and a lifetime with anyone, who?
I don't know. You?
One night Madonna, One week my ex, Fiona, and lifetime, Meg Ryan.
Fiona who?
Fiona Mowlana is that model no?
She's been in few commercials.
She pretty
I know

You visited the same church as Fiona. You went on dates and you presumed this was leading to something. Every weekend she'd fuck some guy in Cascades and let you know about it. Everyday you would tell yourself that she would get sick of these arseholes and come to you. Eventually, she got sick of you and went to them.

You sex her?
U use dirty words
What u think I don't know
I make love I make good love
How big is you
Find out
That means it small
How many you seen
Only my daddy's

You are erect and the keyboard is smoking. Anasu is proving to be a worthy investment. But then again, that's how Suba had appeared at the beginning. She has obviously had experience. Either that, or she is naturally perverted. Either way, it is good.

You've made love before?
Sort of
did you sex
I'm virgin. I want like my Appa.
Disgusting. Appa is big?
Huge. U?
very big....veyr hard

You renew for another half hour. Time has lost its meaning and your wallet can support the indulgence. The annoying DJ has been replaced by Bon Jovi singing Living on a prayer. You would have preferred the DJ. She takes a long time to reply and you distract yourself with celebrity porn. Finally she returns.
Who is that?
Anasu, I want you
Whio is this
Sorry. Suzee right?
No suzi here
what's your name babe
Jebe Naganathan
You're the bugger who's calling my daughter
Who are u
I will find you and thrash you
fuck off.. arsehol...
I know you number. Get out or I will cal police

You shut down and walk out, giggling to yourself, though mildly repulsed. Is your erection valid if it is caused by a middle-aged father of two? You hate fake arousal. Britney Spears' head dropped on some hustler slut's body fails to elicit any response from your loins. But one blurred tabloid snatch of Anna Kournikova on the beach and you require a tissue.

As long as the nudity is real so is the fantasy. That's your logic. Because if that is how Jerri from Survivor looks naked, that is how she will look in your dreams when on some unspecified day in some unspecified future yours and her paths will cross and you will seduce her. But the truth is that they're just pieces of paper, and the images, real or authentic, will always be impossible for you.

* * *

You drive back to Hotel Devaki, Ranil's car is no longer there. The Poya moon is in its heavens and your night is still not over. You drive along at 15 kph looking for the whore in a blue sari with a semi perfect set of teeth.
You find a dark woman in a mini skirt who stumbles from the gate and looks upon you as an acquaintance.
"So you want for the night."
"How much for the night?"
"Five thousand."
"I will give thousand five for a room."
"That means only half hour."
"You're an expensive veysee."
"I'm not a veysee, sir."

The pimp at the desk calls her Sivali akka. You don't call her anything. She is fatter than the whore in the blue sari. In your thirty-two history of owning a penis, this is the first time you have paid to have it entertained. You are more than a tad unsure of yourself.

The flower-patterned curtain that adorns the doorway flutters as you enter. The room is dusty and smells of sweat and other bodily fluids. There is no furniture except for a bed and a full length mirror. The bed is stripped bare to its coconut husk stuffing. There are dulled stains on the walls and on the sheets. Dark brown. Like old scabs.

You take off your shirt and let your feet dangle off the side of the bed. You look in the mirror and watch the sweat drip across your belly. Your hair sticks to your scalp. Your eyes are sunken and your neck is hunched. She kneels behind you and massages your shoulders.

"First time Sir is coming?"
You watch her fake smile in the mirror and realize that you have no hope of blaming this escapade on alcohol.
"How do you know?"
She runs a finger across your nipple.
"These things I know."

You are aroused. That you cannot dispute. Even though Sivali Akka straddles the parameters of what you would consider acceptable in the sober light of day.

"Why do you do this?"
This is evidently a common question. She brushes your hair with her fingernails and grins with all her teeth. You notice how unusually shiny they are.
"You don't want fuck?"
"I want to make love. Show me your breasts."

The light-blue jacket and the black bra are flung to the floor. They lie liberated near your feet. You are more interested in these cheap articles than in the melon-shaped tits that brush against your hair. Brown balloons half blown. A nipple catches your ear and sends blood to your crotch.

"Mahattaya . Shall we start. I have to be out at half past one."
You turn around and pin her to the bedposts. She pulls the rolls of sari to her waist and pushes her panty to her toes. You kiss her neck and begin thrusting.

"What would you like me to do?"
"First take off trouser."
"I want you to enjoy."

She laughs and you are hurt by her disdain. You repeat yourself and she repeats her laughter.
"I will enjoy if you enjoy. But Sir. Enjoy quickly. Please."

You want to ask her about her life. Whether she is married. How much she makes. What she makes it for. You want to turn her into another Suba. Another Anasu. You refuse to accept that this is pure commerce. But it is. She is providing a service and you are relieving an urge. An urge that has been building up in your loins for months. Months which threaten to turn into years.

Her warmth penetrates the condom. Your tongue aims for her lips, but she turns and offers her cheek. She moans and you know she is faking. Her moans grow frantic in an attempt to force a climax. You continue to soldier on. You close your eyes and imagine. Anasu, Suba, the female cast of Friends, the woman newsreader on ITN, Dame Judi, Salma Hayek. The final image you hold is that of Fiona Mowlana dirty dancing with you at Cascades. Your hips let out a few spasms and you hold the position. Back taut. Stomach clenched.
You attempt conversation as you put your clothes back on. But she no longer has any interest in you. You ask about her family and she ignores you. You feel satiated but weak. You sit on the bed and watch her smooth the creases of her sari. She looks at you and frowns.

"Didn't enjoy? I can give good suck. Five hundred rupees."
Then she removes her dentures to reveal a well lubricated set of gums. You are out of the door and in your car in nanoseconds.

* * *

There is nothing for you to think about on your way home. You stop at a Kottu joint and wash down your shame with egg roti and lime juice. Everyone you know fucks whores. Everyone you know watches porn and talks to underage sluts. Everyone you know cheats on their wives. Except for you.
Until now.

You wife is waiting up for you reading Cosmopolitan. You jump into the shower and stumble into the bed. She plants a kiss on your cheek and smothers you in a bear hug.

"You've been drinking no, baba? It says here that alcohol causes impotence. No wonder you're no longer interested in sex."
You return the cuddle and put on your sweetest voice.
"Aney tired no baba. Not tonight. Tomorrow promise."
Your cellphone rings. You switch it off, hit the lights and go to sleep.

* * *

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